


The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

by sebby



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Terminal Illnesses, There will be sex and other stuff later., Ye be warned. There's really lots of fucking angst.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebby/pseuds/sebby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt on the Les Mis Kink Meme: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=4304431#t4304431</p>
<p>Joly missed the signs, and now Bossuet is dying.</p>
<p>Grantaire missed the signs, and now no one is speaking to him.</p>
<p>Everyone deals with tragedy in different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is un-beta'd so if any of you kind folks would be willing to point out any mistakes, I'd be very grateful! This is also the first fic I've ever posted here, so... godspeed!
> 
> The title of the fic is taken from a song by Ewan MacColl, famously sung by Roberta Flack in 1972. If you are the sort who finds that listening to a soundtrack enhances your reading experience, I strongly encourage you to give the song a listen as it was part of the inspiration for this fiction as well as a classic. Here's a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOFrGbuUqnQ

Joly had not died of any of the cancers he'd feared, none of the infections, none of the pulmonary embolisms, or parasites he'd imagined crawling through his veins. At twenty three, he was almost painfully healthy.

He was standing at a bus station in his home town. The familiar smells that he'd somehow forgotten since the last time he stood there at the age of sixteen came filtering back into his senses, settled in his bones like dread and sat there in his marrow. He was back from visiting his boyfriend who was dying in a hospital bed.

Bossuet was blind now, robbed completely of his eyes by the cancer that had taken a lung, the cancer that was everywhere now in little white tumours that filled up his insides, the cancer that was taking his life. 

“My other senses are heightened now.” Bossuet had assured him, optimistically. “I can hear things in your voice that I've never heard before.” He'd reached out intuitively and taken Joly's wrist, pulling him down so that they were face to face. “Don't cry, Jolllly.”

Joly had not even realized that he had been crying. “I love you.” He said for the thousandth time, wondering how long this lucidity would last. When Bossuet was lucid, his mind was far clearer than Joly's. When he was not... he was much the same as when he was lucid, mostly telling Joly and any of the others who had come to visit (and to keep Joly from doing anything stupid) how much he loved them all.

“And you know I love you too. That is why I can't bear to hear you this way. You'll make yourself ill.”

The thought of being ill had a strange appeal to Joly at that moment, but still he would cover himself in hand sanitiser after leaving the hospice just to be safe. He had nothing to lose, but still little germs frightened him. It was _pathetic._

Five months. Six at most. But, he could go at any time. 

Joly's eyes burnt and his head ached. “I'm not ill.” He whispered.

“That's good news.” Bossuet chuckled. “I think this is the first time I've heard you say so. Do you remember when we first met? You thought you had---”

“I had bronchitis.”

“You had a cold. And you wouldn't let anyone near you because you were afraid you would spread the contagion.”

“And I didn't want a secondary infection.”

“You didn't want to speak to anyone. You were nervous. Joly, I know you. Better than anyone else in the world, I know you. I know the way your mind works. You can kiss me now, if you'd like. Cancer isn't catching.”

Joly winced at the word. _Cancer._ He kissed Bossuet gently upon the lips. They were chapped and colourless.

“Do you find me repulsive now, Joly? Do I remind you of sickness?” 

_The world is sick._ Joly thought. “I love you.” He lay his lips upon Bossuet's again.

When the kiss ended, Bossuet was wearing a queer smile. “You did not answer my question.” 

“I find you beautiful.” Joly said. “As beautiful as the day we met.”

Bossuet chuckled. “Surely not that beautiful.”

“Just so.”

“Ten minutes!” A nurse called. “Visiting hours will be over in ten minutes.”

Bossuet's hold on Joly's wrist tightened. “You'll come see me again soon?”

“I'm only visiting home for the week-end. I'll be back after that.” Wait for me.

They sat there in silence, contemplating their entwined fingers. 

“Go back to school, Joly.”

“No.”

“You owe it to yourself. Please, go back for me. As a favour.” Bossuet's unseeing eyes seemed to lock with Joly's. They were full of that final intensity, of a dying man's wishes.

“I don't want to be a doctor. I can't.” Joly's voice caught in his throat and strangled him. 

“I _do not_ blame you for this.”

“Musichetta does.” 

“How is our sweet mistress doing?” Bossuet said, his eyes lighting up but also growing diffuse as he heard her name.

“Wasn't she here to visit you this morning?”

“Oh, yes. So she was. She was looking well...” Bossuet's voice disappeared and he seemed to shrink. 

Joly did not ask how it was Bossuet knew that she was looking well, when he had not seen anything in months. He only squeezed his hand tighter, even as Bossuet's grip went slack. “I'm glad to hear it.” Joly sighed. “I wish she would speak to me.”

There was no comprehension in Bossuet's expression. His brow, his naked, hairless brow was creased in confusion. “I think you had better leave now, Joly. I don't want you to flunk out of University on my account.”

“Okay.” Joly said, pressing his lips to Bossuet's hand and then his brow. It was September. He had dropped out of school in November of the previous year. “I love you.”

Bossuet was silent. He had fallen asleep. Joly wondered whether he would be alive when he returned. A nurse was already waiting for him by the door, waiting to close the door and draw the curtains. Blinded by tears, Joly clutched her soft brown hand and begged her, “Please, don't let him go until I come back.”

He'd come alone and not told the others he was going. He could see now why they insisted on coming with him when he visited. The walk to the bus was the loneliest thing he had ever experienced. Shivering though it was not cold, he boarded the last bus out of the city and left the rest of his fate in the hands of a bored looking bus driver.

Joly hadn't driven a car since the day Bossuet had a seizure and the world ended. They'd been on their way to see some stupid film that Courfeyrac or Marius had picked out. One of those comedies of errors filled with characters who were not entirely sympathetic. Idiots. How could one sympathize with an idiot? Joly had not wanted to go because exams would be upon them soon and he never felt ready. 

The signs had been there: jaundiced skin, the strange colour in his eyes, how tired he'd been, the pain in his chest. Joly had ignored it, worrying instead about keeping _himself_ from becoming ill before exams. He'd not allowed Bossuet near him in bed for fear of contracting whatever bug had him feeling 'under the weather'. He'd been such an idiot. 

They'd been talking about exams in the car. Joly was panicking, per usual, and Bossuet was telling him that he hadn't failed any exams yet, that he'd be fine. “You'll be fine. You'll---I--” And then sounds that were like hiccups and whimpers and Bossuet had begun shaking. Joly nearly crashed the car.

In the hospital, Bossuet had shouted at Joly. He was frightened. That's what he said when he apologized even as Joly was apologizing. Musichetta simply stopped speaking to Joly. They held hands when the results of the blood work came back. Some of the others were there too: Feuilly had taken off work, Enjolras was there too, strangely silent. And Jehan and Courfeyrac. Others came in and out of the room at different times, though only two were allowed in at a time. Joly didn't leave once. And then they said they were keeping Bossuet over night and everyone had to leave because visiting hours had ended.

Grantaire had gotten the bright idea to get Joly drunk in order to remove some of the strain. Instead, Joly jumped off the balcony and broke his ribs. He said it was an accident, because he didn't like the questions. That was when his friends began escorting him on his visits and sleeping on his couch so that the silence didn't consume him.

With these thoughts, on the bus with a humming engine, Joly drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Joly could hardly remember the ride to the hospital. He could have driven Bossuet himself. He should have, as the seizure ended after a moment, and he didn't have another one until many hours later. But, at the time he'd been so afraid. It was the sort of fear that turned him cold from the top of his forehead and then radiating frost down the back of his neck, down his chest and spine, right to his toes. He probably screamed when he called for an ambulance. 

The logical bit that remained told Joly that Bossuet was as safe as he could get strapped into his seat with the seat belt to keep him from injuring himself. He didn't touch Bossuet. He'd wonder later why he hadn't reached out to hold one of his loose hands, why he hadn't spoken comfortingly. A real doctor would have told Bossuet that it would be over soon, that he was safe. Instead he'd watched in horror as his life changed permanently.

Then the emergency crew was upon them and Joly watched them load Bossuet onto a stretcher. Bossuet hadn't spoken since the seizure ended. Joly sat with Bossuet in the ambulance, leaving the car where it was parked on a residential street. Then they arrived in the emergency department and Bossuet was wheeled into the hall until a room opened up. The walls were painted with under-sea scenes. Joly wondered whose bright idea it was to make it so that the last thing a person see before dying was a giant smiling star fish. The room repulsed him. 

“I'm just stressed.” Bossuet tried to tell him. “People have seizures when they've been worrying too much and not getting enough sleep.”

Then the others arrived. Feuilly worked nearby and came dressed in his work attire. Then Enjolras arrived. And Musichetta dressed in her bohemian skirts with her hair back in a scarlet dyed banana with many little bits of reflective jingling metal along the seams. 

Musichetta didn't even look at Joly at first, moving straight to Bossuet's side and embracing him. Joly watched them speaking in low voices, neither one looking his way. Joly did not attempt to make conversation. As far as he was concerned they had all shunned him already. Just the night before he had been fretting about a sore throat. _A sore throat!_

Then, Musichetta rounded on him, and he was glad the others had to wait outside the room. Her finger nails were long and painted. They made a mark upon his face when she slapped Joly, hard. “Don't ever complain about being sick again, you hear me? Don't you fucking dare worry about yourself. If you were any sort of doctor at all he wouldn't be here right now!” She pointed to Bossuet for emphasis. “You did this.”

Joly didn't shout back, but listened as she continued her rant until a nurse came in and asked her to leave. She was upsetting the other patients. 

It took Joly a moment before he could look at Bossuet again. When he did look he saw how right Musichetta had been. Bossuet was thinner than usual, paler. His skin had taken on a yellowish tint. His eyes told him that Bossuet had not been sleeping. “Do you blame me?” 

“You didn't notice. I've wondered for a long time if your worries extended only to yourself and now... well, doesn't this just confirm my suspicions?” It was an accusation.

“How was I to know? And with exams coming up... I didn't have time to think---”

“You had time to worry about yourself, Joly. The truth is, you worry about yourself all the time. You care so much for yourself you never have time to worry about your friends.” Bossuet's eyes were not hard like Musichetta's had been. If Joly had been looking closely enough he'd have seen fear. “If you'd bothered to look, you might have noticed that I haven't been feeling so great lately.”

“I love you.”

“Do you?” Bossuet raised his brows--- he had eyebrows back then. “Do you really?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then, why the hell am I here? Tell me Joly, when is the last time you've worried about me?”

“I'm worried right now.”

“Worried about exams. Worried the others will never speak to you again after this. Worried that I'll die and abandon you. Those are your worries, Joly!” Bossuet was shouting. The heart monitor was going wild. He caught himself. “I know you too well. You're only worried about yourself, even when you think you're worried for me.”

“That's not true.” 

“I'm tired.”

“That is not true.” Joly's hands shook. His mouth tasted of bile. 

Enjolras entered the room. “What happened?” He looked from Bossuet to Joly and then back to Bossuet again.

“Nothing yet. I'm just waiting for my MRI.” Bossuet was calm again, but his eyes spoke of desperation.

Enjolras's shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “So, it's definitely cancer.” 

“Definitely cancer.” Bossuet nodded, his eyes pointedly avoiding Joly's.

Joly sagged down in his seat like he was the one who was dying. Like he'd already died. “I'm sorry.” He whispered from inside his hands. 

“You know we'll be here for you until you pull through this.” Enjolras said.

“And what then? Will you forget me after I've recovered?” Bossuet said, with a hint of humour. Feeble humour. “What about school?”

“Of course we wont forget you.” Enjolras either ignored or missed the attempt. “And you know that we'd all sooner drop out of university than let you endure this alone.”

“Thank you, Enjolras. I needed to hear that.”

Joly didn't speak.

Later, when Grantaire dragged him over to the room he shared with a freshman named Montparnasse, Joly didn't speak when he was plied with drinks. He didn't say a word when he thought he'd rather be dead than see Bossuet suffer a disease that he should have caught sooner.

The room was tight and where a normal person might have placed a shelf for books or DVDs, there was a rack for bottles of booze. Grantaire was proud of it.

There was a breeze out on the balcony. No one was sober enough to notice when Joly stepped out alone, when he leaned over the railing and then lifted one leg and then the other. His balance was off. He didn't have the choice to turn back. He fell on his side. The drop was not far enough to kill him, but his drink addled mind did not know that. He closed his eyes and waited for the end. The fall did end, but he awoke with a needle in his hand.

They blamed Grantaire this time. Enjolras took Grantaire by the shoulders and shook him. “Is there anything there? Is your skull filled with cotton?” 

“Vodka, actually.” 

“I expect this sort of thing out of you. But, don't you _dare_ bring anyone else down with you. Do you understand me?”

“He's awake.”

“What were you thinking, Joly?” Enjolras's tone was gentle when he asked. 

“I wasn't.” He licked his lips. His mouth tasted of vomit. “I wasn't thinking.”

Grantaire was gone, off to paint his sorrows and to drink. Joly's eyes found a hideous painted seahorse with big cartoon eyes and a hateful smile. “Am I on the same floor as Bossuet?” 

“Your ribs are broken. Combeferre is with him now. Just try to relax.” Enjolras didn't complain about the stench of alcohol upon him like he might have if it had been Grantaire or Bahorel.

“I can't.” Joly blinked. “I've been an idiot.”

“You were drunk.” Enjorlas said. “Not that that excuses anything. I want you to stay with Combeferre and I this week. All right?”

“I don't need a baby sitter.” 

“Once you've proven that to me, you wont have one.” Enjolras's tone was firm, but kind. “We'll get you and Bossuet through this, I promise you.”

“What if he dies?”

Enjolras considered the question with the same seriousness with which he approached everything else. “Then we'll still be with you both the whole way.” 

“I can't live without him, Enjolras. I just can't.”

“You can.”

“Don't tell me what I can or can't do, okay?” Joly's words were harsher than he'd intended them to be. “I know what I can survive. I _cannot_ live without him.”

“Then you'll just have to try... if it comes to that. Why are you so certain that he's dying?” Beneath his commanding voice there was curiosity and concern. 

“I don't know. I'm not certain of anything these days.” Joly could not explain that terrible twisting in his gut. It was a terrible certainty to which he had awakened. “But, I think he's dying.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short.

The bus driver had a reedy voice. Joly awoke with a start, breathing heavily, blinking back tears. Embarrassed he scrubbed his eyes and hoped he hadn't cried out in his sleep. There were only two other people on the bus, not counting the driver. “Last stop.” 

He checked to make certain he hadn't forgotten any of his belongings, before remembering that he hadn't taken anything with him. He departed in silence. It was morning. He walked to the place where his old neighbour was picking him up. The money for fuel was in his pocket. His wallet with a picture of the three of them; Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly; was in his pocket too. He did not pull it out and open it up. He wanted to seem happy when his ride arrived. 

He wondered if he would ever be happy again after Bossuet was gone. He could move in with Enjolras and Combeferre, but they would graduate and part ways eventually. He could not burden them with his presence. He could learn to play the guitar. Music held little appeal for him those days, so he dismissed the idea. He could travel East or South and work as a medic without pay. He'd have to go back to school then.

He had not spoken to his parents since he had left at sixteen, heartbroken over their lack of acceptance after he'd come out as not entirely straight. That had been a mistake.

An electric car pulled up and Joly was immediately intimidated. People had always frightened him a bit. 

“You look well.” The neighbour lied. 

“You too.” Joly said, enviously. 

The neighbour laughed. “Oh me? No. I've gone way out of shape. My wife keeps me fattened up.” 

They continued their uncomfortable small-talk for the duration of the drive. Joly leapt out of the car and handed his neighbour the fuel money, only to have it refused. After five minutes of refusals and offers, he finally waved farewell and began the long and terrifying journey up the front path to the door of his childhood home. He knocked on the door. There was no answer at first. His stomach seemed to be swallowing itself up. He was too tired to tell if it was out of fear or the fact that he had not eaten in so long. 

The door opened, his heart contracted. “Joly?”

“Maman.” 

The screen door disappeared from between them, and then the air as he was encircled by a familiar scent of kitchen spices and garden work, held together by those still dependable arms, her healthy breast. “I've worried so much. And you never called! You never wrote. Let me look at you! You look so tired. Oh, my baby boy. What has the world done to you? You're so handsome!” 

He didn't speak. He sank into her embrace and inhaled her womanly strength. He couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to. 

“Your father has already gone to work. Would you like me to call him so he can come see you?”

Joly shook his head. “No, no please, Maman. Just you now. I'm not ready to see him yet.” 

She measured him from where she stood across the room, noting how he had grown, how he carried himself differently than he had then. It frightened her to see that he had changed so much. “I never forgave him for driving you away.” 

“He didn't drive me away. I left.” Joly said, though it was a lie. “I've missed you.”

She fed him and forced him into the bath before feeding him again. His old clothes fit too tightly, and he had no hope of wearing his old jeans. In the end he only changed his shirt. “Have you been eating?” She kept asking him. “You're so thin.”

He ate and then slept in his old bed surrounded by his old books and posters after he changed the sheets that had not been changed in seven years. Even his old computer was there, collecting dust on his desk. When he awoke it was the afternoon. 

“Your father will be home soon. Do you want to get ready?”

“No. Thank you, Maman. I'm so glad that I've gotten to see you. But, I think I'll be going now.”

“He doesn't hate you. He still calls you his son.”

“My boyfriend is waiting for me.”

That shut her up. “Then, I suppose you are right. You had better go.” She gave him money for transportation. And then, he left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Grantaire's chapter, so if you're not interested in his character arc in this story, feel free to skip it.

In spite of his hypochondria and general flailing, Grantaire had always taken Joly for one of the saner ones of the group. 

He'd always secretly suspected that Courfeyrac was a sex addict, was certain that Bahorel had anger issues, and Enjolras was some mysterious brand of crazy the psychiatric community had yet to classify. Jehan took mood stabilizers for bipolar disorder and Combeferre secretly took Ritalin in order to study all night. Feuilly was probably secretly a psychopath since he appeared so exceedingly normal. Musichetta was definitely a psychopath, because Grantaire had once been on the receiving end of her rage for allowing Joly to watch 1000 ways to die. Marius acted mentally challenged on occasion. Eponine was ten kinds of fucked up. Bossuet had to be crazy to be so optimistic when nothing ever went his way. Grantaire knew himself to be one of the maddest of the bunch. On top of that, they all made up a club that catered to the LGBT community. LGBT people were prone to mental illness and suicide. 

Joly seemed happy even when he was anxious or feeling perpetually under the weather. But, then he'd jumped. And Grantaire knew he should have seen it coming. He hadn't even noticed that Joly was gone until Montparnasse, his drug-dealing freshman room mate had asked him, “Where is your friend?” 

Guess where he was? On the ground, with his ribs disconnecting every time he took a breath. Grantaire had seen that the sliding glass door was opened, and then he'd run out and looked down. Then he'd called for an ambulance. No one would ever forgive him for that. How could anyone be so careless?

Enjolras had looked at him with barely restrained rage, and for a moment Grantaire had almost feared for his life. _Almost._ Mostly, he was just hoping that Enjolras would strike him and then forgive him for something that was truly inexcusable. He didn't want to imagine what might have happened if Joly had died. His Amis would probably have formed a lynch mob and surrounded Grantaire's shitty student housing unit. Grantaire would have gone to them willingly to be torn limb from limb, and then it would be over.

Now no one was talking to him. He'd tried calling Jehan. Jehan was a sweet kid; the forgiving sort. But, not even Jehan would crack. He visited Bossuet and Joly while he was there, but no one else wanted anything to do with him.

_I'm a leper._ He thought dully, as he downed another shot of liquid hatred. 

It had been three weeks since anyone had spoken to him. Three weeks and some change of unending drinking. He never even gave himself the time to develop a hangover. He chased his headaches with more drink. It was a wonder he hadn't yet fallen dead from liver failure. 

“Do you have my money?”

Grantaire spilt the bottle he was pouring into his old-pill-bottle shot glass. “Shit.”

Montparnasse was not sympathetic. “You said you'd have my money in a week. A week is up. Where the fuck is my money?” 

“Chill. I've got it here.” Grantaire reached into his pocket but did not find his wallet... or his pocket as it happened that he was dressed only in his underpants. “It's on the dresser. Take what I owe you.” It was foolish to allow Montparnasse to decide how much he was owed without supervision, but Grantaire was not in the mood for standing up.

Montparnasse lifted the wallet with disgust and took what he thought he was owed (plus five for the hardship of touching Grantaire's disgusting falling-apart wallet).

Grantaire watched him with muted eyes. “Have you heard from Eponine?”

“Sure I have.” Montparnasse was obviously not in the mood for conversation.

“Did she say anything?”

“If you want me to tell you if she wants to hear from you, then the answer is no. Is that all?”

“Sorry for wasting your time.” And then Grantaire was alone again. When the quiet got to be too much, he stood up and made his way out to the nearest spirit selling establishment. The place nearest was a small shop that smelled of damp. It was operated by two young student-aged men who could be brothers with their strange squashed long faces. They were unsmiling twins with a distinctive inbred look about them, he thought. His phone buzzed. 

_“You didn't show up for the club meeting.”_ It was Enjolras. Only Enjolras still used his mobile phone to actually make telephone calls. 

“No.” 

There was silence. Then, _“Everyone was worried about you.”_ It wasn't an _'I was worried'_ , but it was damn close to it. His pulse quickened.

“I thought everyone hated me.” He silently begged Enjolras to deny it.

_“What gave you that idea?”_

Anger prickled under Grantaire's skin. “Maybe the fact that no one has spoken to me in a month. Or--- the fact that no one will look at me when I do show up for club meetings. Or, maybe because no one has answered my calls. Or because some of you actually unfriended me on facebook?”

_“You use facebook?”_ Enjolras sounded at a loss. 

“Yes, I do on occasion. Like when I am trying to figure out what the hell is going on with my friends. When I am trying to apologize.”

_“I'm the one who should apologize.”_ Enjolras said, sounding very much like a politician to Grantaire's drunk brain. _“I didn't realize that the others had... I should have expressed my grievances more clearly. I didn't mean to... hurt your feelings.”_

Grantaire ended the call. It was incredible. It was liberating. He couldn't believe that _he'd_ been the one to hang up. 

“Are you going to pay for that or what?” One of the inbred shopkeepers inquired, watching Grantaire with a pinched look.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Grantaire paid and left, heart pounding. He felt a thrill of fear and retribution as he wondered how Enjolras must have felt then. He imagined his expression--- mild annoyance no doubt, but he liked to think that he would dwell on their short conversation, attempting to pinpoint exactly what it was that he'd said to make Grantaire hang up on him. The fantasy ended quickly when he realized that Enjolras might have been making his last attempt to salvage their friendship or acquaintanceship or whatever they had. 

He contemplated calling Enjolras back and apologizing, or blaming it on a bad connection or maybe his phone's battery. He contemplated sobering up and going to the next meeting a new man. When he arrived in his shared room to find Montparnasse fucking some coed on his bed, he turned around and left, remembering that he was a fucked up person from a fucked up situation and things weren't as easy as turning over a new leaf. 

He wandered the streets, looking for a place to sleep without getting mugged. It was meant to be this way. He expected no more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is centred around Bahorel, though it still follows the plot. I'm trying to show how various amis are dealing with the situation.

Bahorel's sex drive was gone. With a lower case “g-o-n-e” because like so much else that died it went out with a whimper, and just sort of fizzled out like the end of a neglected blunt. He smoked a lot. The air was always thick with smoke and laughter, though the laughter seemed more forced every day. He picked Joly up at the bus station and took him to visit Bossuet. He was blissfully stoned then. He'd smoked two Cuban style blunts right down to the roaches. 

“Nice shirt.” He said, teasingly. Joly was dressed in a tee-shirt that was clearly three sizes too small for him. It was a band tee-shirt, which made it all the funnier to Bahorel. “Should I start calling you 'brah'?” 

“I'd like it if you didn't.” Joly said, feebly. 

“Do you prefer bro?” This did not earn him an answer. “Wrong subculture?” He was losing his sense of humour too. That was scary.

“I'm tired.”

“I'm high.” He waited for Joly to offer to drive to spare them both arrest or death. “You're just going to let that one slide?”

“I'm tired.”

_He's tired of living._ It hit Bahorel with a jolt. “Fair enough. I'll get you there as quickly as I can.” He put on the radio. The music was too loud and puerile. It no longer amused Bahorel. He switched it off. “When are you coming back to school, Jol?” 

“Never.” 

A beat. “You don't mean that.”

“I do.”

“Don't you want to help people?”

“I can't. I couldn't help him. I can't even help myself. How the fuck am I supposed to help anyone else?”

“You're too hard on yourself.” Bahorel was thoroughly uncomfortable. He wasn't the 'lets talk about feelings' sort of guy that Jehan or Courfeyrac were. He wished that Feuilly was off work so that they'd have some conversation, even if it was just about world politics. 

There was a long stop light. Bahorel pulled out his car pipe--- yes, he had a pipe for his car specifically--- and passed that and a film can sized tube of weed to Joly. “Smoke with me.” He expected some kind of protest. He got none. 

Joly's inexperience meant that he nearly spilled it all out in his lap while he was attempting to pack it into the pipe. But, he lit the thing effectively enough and didn't choke to death with his first drag. At the next stop light, Bahorel smoked too, while Joly coughed and coughed until tears were streaming down his pale cheeks. 

“You're a trooper, you know that, Jolllly?” Joly didn't seem to hear him, and they were at the hospice soon enough. Joly left and did not ask Bahorel to follow. “I'm going to finish this off and then I'll meet you inside, all right?”

Joly nodded and disappeared while Bahorel hunted for a parking space in the shade. When he did park, he reduced the bowl to ash. Then he texted Feuilly.

**Help.**

**Who is this? Is this Bahorel?**

**No, I'm a Nigerian Prince and I need you to send me € 1000. You will be rewarded. YES this is Bahorel! Who did you think it was?**

**New phone. All of the old contacts are gone. What do you need help with? I'm not doing a drug run.**

**I'm offended. You don't think I can do drug runs by myself? I need help with Joly. As ironic as it may be for me to say this, I think there is something actually wrong with him.**

**You've got a very curious understanding of irony.**

**Give it a rest. This isn't about me. He looks like a zombie. Is there any way he could have contracted cancer sympathetically or something?**

**Not likely. Would you like to meet for dinner and drinks or something?**

**Like a date?**

**NO. Both of you. The three of us. Eating dinner and drinking. Being good friends. As a matter of fact, why don't you invite some of the others? Courfeyrac is good for lifting spirits.**

**Are Enjolras and R speaking? Or are they still pretending they don't fap to each others pictures at night.**

**I... think they're speaking? And that is not a picture I wanted to have in my head, thanks. Invite both anyway. We can have this at Courfeyrac's place. You know he'll never say no to a social gathering.**

**You mean a party?**

**NO. A party would imply that this had the potential to go out of control. This is a quiet get together. Friends comforting friends. You know exactly what this is about.**

**I couldn't forget if I tried. And I've tried.**

Bahorel glanced at the last text before slipping his phone into his pocket. There was only one non-family visitor allowed in the room at a time. Bahorel squared his back, and walked in looking like he owned the place. 

“Sir, only one visitor is allowed in at a time.” A nurse with terribly fake looking red hair informed Bahorel.

“I'm his doctor.” Bahorel told her.

“Aren't you a bit young to be a doctor?” She said, raising a comically arching, pencilled-in brow. 

“I moisturise.” Bahorel said, without taking a beat. And then he entered the room ignoring the nurse's repeated protestations of _'sir'._

Joly was sobbing quietly at Bossuet's bedside. “He can't hear me. Or he can't understand me.” He told Bahorel, without turning around. “I want him to know that I love him.”

Bahorel knelt down and wrapped his arms around Joly, who let Bossuet's hand drop so it hung limply over the side of the bed. They were both red eyed. “He knows.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is centred around Jehan but follows the plot.

It was still warm enough to walk on the beach in the evening. Jehan had been doing just that, collecting sea-shells as the sun settled on the horizon, and collecting freckles from the UV. He'd been thinking. There was a poem, millions of poems really, sitting in the palm of his hand in every single shell he collected. He wanted to make a crown of shells or a bracelet. Something lovely to make him feel a bit better. He'd make one for Bossuet. Maybe that would make him smile. 

He was meeting with Courfeyrac in an hour at the end of the pier, and then they'd walk together to meet with their friends at the student apartment they shared not to far from the artsy beret-wearing beach district. 

He was sad. It was an exquisite sadness, the sort that inspired him to introspection and then to writing. He thought he'd like to have his ashes sprinkled in the sea when he died. Bossuet had already said that he wanted to be cremated. His organs were too cancerous to be useful as donors, and he said that he regretted that in the lucid hour when he told his friends. 

Just thinking about it made Jehan a bit too sad for his liking. And he did like to be sad sometimes. It made him feel complex. He sat in the cooling sand and closed his eyes.

The day Bossuet told them all how he wanted them to dispose of his remains, Jehan had told himself he'd keep it together and do the comforting. But, he saw very quickly that keeping it together was silly and that grieving people could comfort one and other. He'd cried almost the moment Bossuet opened his frost-kissed lips. 

“I want you all to have a party at the beach on some sunny day. I want you to enjoy yourselves. Get drunk. Talk. Think about the good times we've had together. Think about the bad times too, and laugh. You've all made my life incredible. I want you to have that party for me, and then at sunset, I want you all to step out in the water together and I want you to let my ashes fall into the water and drift away. And then I want you to get on with your lives.” Bossuet was crying too.

Jehan was an absolute wreck, but he held on to Courfeyrac and he squeezed Joly and Musichetta and Bossuet. And he told them how much he loved them. He loved them too much to feel ashamed of his tears or to feel ashamed of their tears. He loved them too much to allow himself to think of that sunny day, or to imagine any sunny days that would follow when any one of them died. The amis were all together then, an inseparable, incorruptible, perfect family. So many had lost their families just by being themselves, and then they'd found each other.

Bossuet said he felt so fortunate to have had them all as friends, and Jehan curled up into Courfeyrac's side while anonymous hands patted his back and Courfeyrac held him close. 

The sun had disappeared somewhere between Jehan's thoughts and the arrival of the sensual evening breeze. He picked up his shells and made is way to the pier, barefoot so his toes made patterns in the damp sand. He couldn't remember where he'd lost his sandals, but his feet felt liberated by the loss. 

Courfeyrac was leaning against the pier, hands hanging loose where another person might have stuffed their hands inside their pockets. Courfeyrac was perfectly comfortable allowing them to do their thing. He existed in such harmony with his body. Jehan found it refreshing and beautiful. He skipped over to Courfeyrac, not worried about splinters.

“Are you ready, Mon Cher?” Courfeyrac had noticed Jehan's lack of sandals. “Let me carry you. You're going to get splinters.” He insisted, lifting Jehan before he'd gotten his entire explanation out. Jehan was light. 

“Don't let my shells drop.” Jehan said, kissing Courfeyrac on the chin.

“Not a single one.” Courfeyrac promised. 

“Who will we see first?” 

“Grantaire is bringing over that painting you were so fond of. So, I said we'd pick him up.”

“Oh! Good, is it the blue one?” Jehan said excitedly, greatly cheered by the news.

“The very same.” Courfeyrac said.

“I love that one.” Jehan lapsed into silence. The blue painting was an abstract piece that still seemed to suggest the character of a waterfall to Jehan. He sighed, remembering it. He often wondered how such desperately unhappy people could create such joyous art. Or for that matter, how did people create art at all? When did that begin? He was sleepy from his walk. His ginger hair fell about his face in sweet little waves.

In the comfort of Courfeyrac's arms, Jehan drifted off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly about Eponine and Grantaire, and if you're not following Grantaire's plot with Enjolras, you can skip it. Also, warning for drug use!

The amis were all there, except for one. She liked to think he was there in spirit. Apparently, Bossuet hadn't been lucid all day. Joly was stoned out of his head, courtesy of Bahorel. She couldn't say that she wasn't hoping to get stoned herself. Especially now that Marius had arrived with Cosette attached to his arm.

She wander over to Grantaire, placing herself on his lap. “Hey, stranger. Have we met before?” It was a clumsy line for a clumsy excuse not to think about Marius. 

“Oh, you know me--- tall, dark, and snarky?” Grantaire said, offering a poor effort for a smile.

“It does seem I might have met you somewhere before. Tell me, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Snarky: do you know where I might find Mr. Tall, Dark, and Stoned?” 

“He's probably doing coke in the bathroom. Why is it that they always do coke in the bathroom?”

“You've got to respect tradition.” Eponine said, slipping out of Grantaire's lap. She offered him her hand. “Wanna come get stoned with me?”

Grantaire began to refuse her, but then Enjolras entered the room and he took Eponine's hand. “I couldn't think of a better way to spend this lovely, smogy evening.” 

“A man after my own shrivelled heart.” 

Bahorel was doing lines of coke in the bathroom. 

“You're a living cliché.” Eponine told him, swatting his derrière as she entered the cramped room. “How about sharing with us?”

Bahorel took the baggy off of the counter and made a little dot rather than a line of coke.

“What the hell is that?” Eponine scoffed. “My little brother would be offended by that.”

“Your little brother does coke?” Bahorel said in actual surprise. 

“He'd better not. I'd kick his ass.” Eponine said. She wanted to get this over with before Enjolras came in and started lecturing them all. She craved the familiar numbness in the back of her throat. She craved indifference. Bahorel poured out a bit more of the white powder. 

Grantaire wasn't huge on coke. He was perfectly satisfied with drinking alone, and he knew that Eponine and Bahorel were into harder stuff. But, it was hard not to be taken in by the absolute glee with which Eponine inhaled the substance, tapping at her lip and cute little nose as she attempted to get the most of the powder in as possible. Then, Grantaire did his line.

He didn't like being so jumpy, but when the euphoria kicked in he forgot his reservations. They were out in the den with the others. Eponine had disappeared and then reappeared across the room. She and Bahorel were dancing. Grantaire wanted to do something. He needed to do something. He'd not done as much as Eponine, but he didn't have her tolerance. 

His mouth tasted chemical and faintly of blood. He started to make his way over to Eponine, but tripped over someone (Jehan?) and landed on Enjolras's lap. “Are you all right?” Enjolras said, irritation (or was it exhaustion?) thinly veiled.

“I'm fine.” Grantaire said brightly, too brightly. So brightly he said it unconvincingly.

“You're not. What are you on right now?”

“Why do you care?” Grantaire was lifted to his feet. (When had he fallen over? He couldn't remember.)

“I'm your friend.” 

“Friend?” Grantaire laughed a horrible laugh. “We're not friends, Enjolras. I think you made that very clear when you said it was my fault that Joly nearly... you know.”

They'd migrated to Courfeyrac's empty bedroom. “I've always considered you to be my friend.” Enjolras said, seriously. They were so close they were nearly touching.

“Careful, Apollo. Someone might suspect that you can actually stand me.” Grantaire said, hyper-aware of their closeness. 

Enjolras backed away. “We can't talk like this. Not until you've sobered up.” 

“Is this your way of telling me you never want to speak to me again?” Grantaire said, only half-jokingly. 

“No. This is my way of telling you that I think you're better than this. If you've got any respect for either of us, you'll sober up.”

“Of course I respect you! How could you think otherwise? You're so blind, Apollo. You're a fucking genius but you don't understand me at all.”

“You've given me no indication that you have any regard for me at all.” Enjolras said.

“We argue yes, of course we argue. That's the natural balance of things. If I didn't contradict you, who would? I'll follow you wherever you go---- off of a fucking cliff, for instance. Do you understand me? I'd do anything for you. Do you think I haven't tried to be sober in the past? Do you think I like being a worthless burden? Do you think I like spending money on a fucking addiction? I've gone to AA. I've tried to join their little club. It doesn't fucking work for me, okay? I was fucked up before I even started drinking. I'm a fuck up. And don't try to shame me into quitting. That doesn't work. My addiction has nothing to do with you. You can't just show up in my life and expect to fix me. We're not even friends. You don't know anything about me. I have a feeling you don't want to know anything about me. Even if you cared enough to want to fix me you couldn't. We can't even be friends.”

“You're right. I don't understand. I don't know you at all.” Enjolras said, frowning deeply. “And I certainly don't understand why we can't be friends.” 

“I'm in love with you, Enjolras. I've been in love with you since fucking freshman year. Do you need me to make it any clearer for you? That's why we can't be friends. Because I want us to be something we can't be and you want me to be something I can't be.” Grantaire wondered if he'd live to see the morning. The rational bit that was left of him was screaming the whole while to shut up. But, he'd kept going. He had spilled everything on the ground before Enjolras's feet. He was completely at the mercy of the cruel god he loved.

“You never gave any sign... what are you--- you're not serious, are you?” Enjolras, bless his oblivious little head, was completely at a loss as he so often found himself to be with Grantaire (and only with Grantaire). 

Possessed by some fatal impulse, Grantaire pressed Enjolras against the wall and kissed him. They were standing just out of sight of their friends, sparing Enjolras's dignity perhaps. Before Enjolras had a chance to respond positively or negatively, Grantaire was off like a bullet into the next room. He found Eponine and danced with her.

**Author's Note:**

> I've attempted to keep the setting neutral so you can set it wherever you'd like it to be. My headcanon is actually that Bossuet is a POC, but here I've also written him as *insert your headcanon*. If this was a mistake, do tell me so, so I can rectify that. I'm not certain as to what pleases AO3 readers. I hope I haven't disappointed you!


End file.
